


I Didn't Know I Was Touching It

by AshPotatoes69



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: (no actual homophobic incidents but just a wee bit of self resentment that you should be aware of :), But it's in the real world, I have no idea why i wrote this, It's Fitzgerald x Hemingway smut, M/M, There are also references to a lot of other things, also trigger warning there's some mentions of 1920s era appropriate homophobia just a heads up, hem, that's what it is ok, there are references to Gatsby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:21:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshPotatoes69/pseuds/AshPotatoes69
Summary: uhhhhhhhhhhI read Gatsby like four times for English and all these kids in my class were talking bout how GAY it isAnd then we went on a tangent of how gay our buddy Scott wasAnd then I wrote this and did NOT show it to ANYONEThat's a lie I showed it to one personAnd now you're reading it!!I'll submit it to my English teacher if you guys give me a very large amount of kudosLike... 10K kudos. Then I will submit it to my English teacher. That sounds fair
Relationships: F. Scott Fitzgerald/Ernest Hemingway
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	I Didn't Know I Was Touching It

“Scott!” Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald looks up and sees a big, husky looking man shouting at him from up the street. Scott considers avoiding him, but he gives in and looks up at Ernest Hemingway with a smile that contains more repressed homosexuality than he would like to let on.

“It’s good to see you, Ernest,” says Scott, albeit not very honestly. Ernest can’t tell. He’s too busy patting Scott hard on the back with a big grin on his bearded face.

“Writing anything good lately, Scottie?”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” Hem is three years younger and still manages to treat Scott like a little brother.

“Well, are you?” Ernest is curious. Both men are literary geniuses, but they both find writing very challenging, as every writer does.

“My latest book is about a man named Gatsby,” Scott answers. “Come have a drink with me and I’ll tell you about it.”

Shoot! Why did he have to go and ask him out? He was trying to avoid the guy, for Christ’s sake!

“Wonderful,” says Ernest.

The two men find a bar and order more hard liquor than seems possible for their wallets or their tolerance.

Scott begins. “Gatsby is a very hopeful man and has devoted his whole life to a lady named Daisy, who isn’t worth the time of day.”

“How tragic. Do they end up happy together?”

“Of course not. Just as I will never be happy, nor shall my creations.”

Ernest shakes his head and is about to object when he decides against it; his characters get sad endings most of the time too. Instead he says, “I wish I could make you happy, Scott.”

Scott clears his throat. What is he supposed to say to _that_? Everything was awkward enough between the two of them. Hemingway insisting last week that he see Scott’s ‘member’ to affirm that its size was sufficient to please Zelda had definitely not helped. “I wish you could too. But we both know there is nothing natural or good about the way we feel.”

“Gertrude seems to think it’s fine,” says Ernest.

“Don’t bring Gertrude into this. You know it’s different with women.”

“Well anyway, she’s been helping me a bit with my writing. I wish to publish a story about a man and a woman who both fall in love with the same lady on vacation, so they pretend to be siblings. It was her idea, actually.”

“Of course it was her idea,” Scott says. “You’d never come up with that yourself.”

Ernest frowns, offended. Scott softens. “You know I think you’re a superbly talented writer, Hem. But you can’t seriously publish that.”

“Of course not. I will wait until I have passed on and just leave it out on my desk or something. Surely someone will find it and wish to release it.” Scott thinks that is very naïve, but what can he do? It’s not like he wouldn’t love to read that book. He’s sure Hem would do a wonderful job writing it. He has nothing to say, and downs his drink instead.

“You haven’t really told me much about your story, Scott. What did you call it? Gatsby?”

“I haven’t picked a title yet. But I’ve picked a narrator. His name is Nick.”

“Oh yeah?”

“He is a very trustworthy man. He stays out of other people’s affairs, but he gets stuck in the middle of everything anyway.”

“Sounds like you,” Ernest says.

“Nick’s also very enamored with Gatsby, although I have written it subtly enough so that no one will notice.”

“Sounds exactly like you.”

“I suppose so. That always happens to me when I write.” Scott looks down at his watch. “I should be getting home to Zelda.”

“She will be alright.”

Ernest is counting on Scott staying a little longer. What he wants to say is, “how dare you spend your time with that crazy lady instead of your best bro?” He’s still very offended after Zelda dared insult his masculinity. He was by no means a pansy! He was in love with her husband, sure, but that did not make him a pansy! The nerve!

Scott says again that he should be going, but doesn’t make any move to leave. Ernest buys another round of drinks. Eventually, they stumble out of the bar, and Scott doesn’t object when Ernest walks him up to his apartment, or when he joins him in the elevator.

“Hands off the lever,” says the irritated elevator boy to Ernest.

“Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t know I was touching it.”

Scott doesn’t object when Ernest follows him into the cluttered apartment. He reads a note from Zelda: she’s out with friends and will be back late. It already is late, but Scott is too drunk to care. Ernest leads him to the bedroom, and he follows.

The men usually don’t talk. Words make it harder. They both know it’s wrong and screwed up, but they can’t stop. It’s like drinking. It feels good in the moment. It makes life bearable.

Tonight, though, Hem has settled into a happy drunk state. “You’re beautiful,” he slurs into Scott’s ear. His beard tickles Scott’s smooth and irresistible cheekbones.

“You shall destroy me with your perfection, Hem.”

“Always the poet, Scott.” Hem smiles. “Stop being pretty and kiss me.”

Their lips meet in a rough, messy, and achingly beautiful embrace. Hem rips his shirt off, and his lover’s. He moves his warm hands over the smooth planes of Scott’s chest. The smell of sweat and alcohol hangs in the air, and both men find it extremely arousing. Scott tries not gasp as Hem’s hands move lower, and lower, and lower. He feels himself shatter into fragments as Hem finds the source of Scott’s constant angst and aching. His pants are on the floor, his eyes shut, his hands grasping the sheets. It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to spread to every corner of his body. Hem is pleased with himself as he sees Scott struggle to avoid crying out. Scott sees stars as he surrenders to Hem’s touch and lets the building pressure come to a climax. He lies, gasping, in damp sheets and warm arms.

Scott is not disappointed—maybe in himself for letting this happen, but he’s not let down by Ernest. He never could be. The younger man was probably right, though: they will destroy each other. Love does that. The men loved anyway. They beat on, boats against the current. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> This was very cursed sorry
> 
> If you wanna leave a comment it'll make my week :)


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